


Swallow your words, at least for tonight

by NaroMoreau



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Frottage, Lack of Communication, M/M, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:00:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25608544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau
Summary: Crowley knows what they're gambling on out of the indulgence to speak, but there are other ways to make their pleas known.-------Entry for the Round 6 of the Name that Author of the GO events Discord server.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 102
Collections: Name That Author Round Six





	Swallow your words, at least for tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Written for round 6 of NTA of the GO- Events server. 
> 
> Thanks to the wonderful Sketch for the title!

The words rove over his tongue, his teeth. Perched there and ready to fall. Crowley grunts pieces of them in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, masking them in kisses. A hard suck if the most dangerous one threatens to spill.

“Crowley- _-please_ ,--” Aziraphale gasps, leaving speckled bits of his plea over Crowley's lips, his tongue pushing inside Crowley’s mouth, before he pulls away if only by a hair's breadth.

“You only need to ask, angel,” he breathes in Aziraphale’s jaw, just there, on the soft spot where the bone fuses. Syllables stowed like a precious cargo. 

Crowley’s slumped on a bookshelf, the spines digging into his shoulder blades, submitted to Aziraphale's urgence to have him; stifling kisses, the warmth of his chest, angelic hands in riot over Crowley's body. Not far away, the sirens wail over the pitch black city and death-choked streets. The world, all gone to waste.

Crowley’s cock is hard, rubbing painfully against the bulge in Aziraphale’s trousers, and it gets too much, too soon. He has waited too long. He will wait even more; will save the angel a thousand times from the winter if he must, from the cold outside. 

It’s rather cold outside. 

Aziraphale jerks his hip, rolling them against him; another quiet demand amidst the ones already strewn before Crowley.

_Take me, take me, I'm yours._

"How-- _oh, God, Crowley!"_ Aziraphale clutches at his lapels, when Crowley wedges a leg between his, pressing him down on his thigh. "How-- did you know I was there?"

Crowley bucks his hips chasing that white edge, that friction, _there_ , just so. "Just knew," he rasps. "I'm always there, you know that-- always for y-- _mphh"_

He trails off in Aziraphale's mouth; the kiss, a damp mess of teeth and tongue. Crowley knows he ought to be silent. _Moan all you want, cry out if you must, but don't say it_.

It doesn't work this way.

Aziraphale grinds down on Crowley's leg and soon they're rutting and rubbing their erections against each other, hands busy pulling loose tufts of hair.

_I love you._

It's there on Crowley's face. On the weathered leather of a bag full of books tossed aside. Aziraphale has to know.

They're not going to last. The moment zooms on touches and need, their pricks so hard is painful, and the grinds insistent in their rhythm.

" _Angel--"_

Crowley comes with a shudder, gaze fastened on Aziraphale wondrous face, until the angel tenses, his mouth going slack in his climax.

_"Oh, ah, god, Crowley, I lo--"_

Crowley surges and swallows the words, trapping the secrets with his forked tongue, guardian of Knowledge as he is. He will save Aziraphale a thousand times in one night, even from himself.

"Crowley--" Aziraphale's chest is heaving, a sheen of fear to his eyes.

"It's alright, angel. Pay no mind."

Someday, they will work up the way to face it, to parse the puzzle in each touch. They'll yield to their unuttered words.

Someday, when it's not cold outside. 

  
  
  


  
  
  



End file.
